The Rebels of Gold (Loom Saga #3)(76)

All at once, Florence knew why the gun had seemed so wrong to her.

She remembered the weapon she had made at the Alchemists’ Guild hall. It too had a series of runic multipliers, a series that Florence now knew had been flawed. That, combined with the magic discharge . . .

Florence looked to the door that everyone else had leveled their weapons against. She could hear the footsteps now, closing fast. She was torn between what she ought to do, and what she wanted to do. She wanted to get back at Gregory for every rebuff. She wanted him to bear the responsibility of his haste and hubris. But Florence wasn’t inclined to put herself above the best interests of Loom. Not even now.

“Gregory, put the gun down! There’s a mistake! The runes are wrong!” Her voice rose, as if to convey the severity of what she was saying.

Gregory did nothing. His eyes remained on the door, his magic pouring into the weapon. It was too late. The proverbial bucket holding his magic had tipped too far into the gun, and there was no way he would be able to disentangle himself from it now.

“Everyone, get back!” Florence could still feel the shrapnel and daze from the gun exploding in the skeleton forest. “It’s going to blow!”

Florence ran away. She didn’t care how it looked. She didn’t give two canisters about Gregory. All she knew was that she had to survive.

The door they had been watching slammed open, but Florence didn’t even turn. She threw herself down the hall, hands over head. Her ears filled with the sound of a Dragon’s snarl and then the explosion of magic.

Metal and concrete groaned; Florence was slammed into the ground. She tumbled, allowing the momentum to carry her further away along the shock wave. Another body rolled beside her, wheezes betraying life. Florence forced her eyes open and her hands under her shoulders. She pushed upwards, raising her head.

Willie slumped, dazed, against the wall to Florence’s right. She would’ve presumed him dead from the streak of blood that led down to his head, were it not for his groans. Thomas rolled in pain nearby, his lower half burned to a crisp. Even with magical healing, it would likely scar, but the man would live. Shannra was also finding her feet, about as bruised and scraped as Florence. Their position as the rear guard had likely saved them both.

Dragon and Fenthri guts lined the walls, floor, and ceiling out from the epicenter of the blast. Had Florence not known the men who had been standing there moments earlier, she may not have been able to piece together enough flesh to identify them. Gun parts littered the floor.

“More are coming,” Shannra warned. “We need to retreat.”

Florence stared at Willie and Thomas. She had no attachment to these men, no kinship with them. Most of the journeymen hadn’t even given her the time of day while she’d lived among them in the Underground. So, it was surprising to feel her lips form the words, “We can’t leave them.”

“What?” Shannra hissed. “This is the life of a Revolver; they knew—”

“I won’t leave my guildmates behind!” Florence sprung forward into a sprint. She collected up the largest pieces of Gregory’s weapon, pulling them together and flicking aside scraps of flesh.

“What are you doing?” Shannra followed her.

“Leave us . . .” Thomas groaned.

“I know what was wrong with it. I saw a similar weapon once before. Riders used it to shoot down the airship Ari and I were on. The magic . . . We think that magic should be colored, split, but if you put all the colors together you get white. The discharge should be white, not rainbow. It’s not an airship that diffuses and breaks magic apart for lift . . .”

“What are you going on about?” Shannra was utterly lost.

“I knew this before . . . But I was wrong on the Alchemical runes to multiply without splitting. Gregory made the same mistake, but in a different way, which means . . .” Florence began to frantically sort out the parts.

“Florence, there’s no time for this.”

“I can fix it.” Florence laid out her revolver. The barrel would be shorter. She’d have to account for that when it came to how many multipliers she stacked, and the range it would be effective in before the magic beam unraveled. “I can make it work.”

“We’re going to die if we stay!”

“Two more, incoming . . .” Thomas moaned.

“Go on without us,” Willie wheezed.

“No!” Florence’s hands continued to move so quickly that she hardly had time to think between motions.

“Florence, is this about saving guildmembers? Or saving your pride?” Shannra grabbed her elbow. “They knew the risks. Don’t insult them. Save yourself. Fix it later.”

“I will not be like her!” Florence shouted, tearing her eyes away from the gun parts and bringing them to Shannra’s face. “I will not treat my guild like it’s expendable!”

“Her? Who? Your guild?” Shannra shook her head, standing and letting go of Florence. “What do you think you are?”

“I’m the woman who will save Loom.” Florence bent and heated gold, connecting parts with seams that would likely only hold for one or two shots. One or two shots would be all she needed. “Before anything else, I am a Revolver, and I will not let the death of my vicar—however much of an idiot he was—go to waste.”